


Novelty

by Argyle



Category: Good Omens
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-11
Updated: 2005-08-11
Packaged: 2019-02-11 19:57:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12942606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: It might never have happened but for the kippers.





	Novelty

It might never have happened but for the kippers.

Certainly, the wine had flowed aplenty the previous evening, and Aziraphale’s settee could never qualify as an ideal place to spend the night, but it was the piping hot platter of slick brown fish which hovered precariously close to Crowley’s face that came to seal the transaction of his waking up.

A neat, black eye glinted back at him, and a gaping mouth whispered in a voice that was not unlike Aziraphale’s own, “Good morning, my dear. I thought you might like a bit of breakfast before we set out.”

“Ngk,” Crowley managed. The first rays of dawn streamed through the open window, casting the shop in scarlet and blue. Aziraphale’s palm was pressed against his thigh, and his face was bright and wakeful. The kippers were still grinning. Crowley felt his stomach churn. “Set out? What time is it?” he asked against the crook of his arm.

“Later than it ought to be if we’re to find anything worth purchasing, I should think,” Aziraphale said, standing up. “Now, I’ll ask you again to come to the table. I can’t have you making a mess on my upholstery.”

Crowley considered this. The upholstery in question belonged to a year when mauve and plum medleys of heavy paisley were still considered fetching [1], and although it was saturated by the scent of antique books and burnt biscuits, he had never so much as found a crumb atop the cushions or tuppence between them. If a slice of salted fish flesh or a dollop of marmalade happened to insinuate itself into the weave, he could easily enough miracle it away, but Aziraphale would almost certainly become cross, and perhaps even decide that it wasn’t such a jolly idea for them to attend a car boot sale this morning. In fact--

“Car boot sale?” Crowley choked, sliding his chair back from the table.

“Of course,” Aziraphale said, and refilled Crowley’s teacup. He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket, glanced at it for a moment, and then handed it to Crowley. Some hapless human had obviously thought highly enough of the event as to print the details in a clear, sensible serif type, though the effect was rather cast aside when one actually made an attempt to see past the neon green background.

“In a carpark?”

“No.” Aziraphale tilted his head to scan the page, then pointed to a small block of text at the bottom. “A farmer’s field.”

“A farmer’s field?” Crowley asked incredulously.

“Yes. In Oxfordshire. It ought to be _very_ picturesque.”

“I _never_ agreed to go to a car boot sale.”

“Please, my dear boy. Not so loud,” Aziraphale said soothingly.

Crowley shook his head, flinching as the tea seared a path across his tongue. “I never agreed to it,” he said again, and straightened his collar. “I would _remember_ agreeing to it.”

“Well, I suppose it was rather late when I thought to propose--”

“When?”

Aziraphale smiled placidly. “Last night.” Nibbling on a piece of toast, he patted the back of Crowley’s hand.

“ _When_ last night?”

“Oh. Between the discourse on the plight of the silver-backed mountain minnow and the tirade relating to last week’s episode of Nigella Lawson’s cooking programme.”

Crowley grimaced. “She licks her fingers on television.”

“Yes, well.”

“That still doesn’t explain how I _happened_ to agree to go to a car boot sale.” Crowley stopped chewing for a moment, and his brow knitted into a frown. He glanced down at his plate. “What exactly is going on here? I don’t even _like_ kippers, angel.”

Aziraphale’s smile became a little less placid and a little more sheepish. “You don’t?”

\------------------

“Now what?” Crowley asked, thinking it a perfectly reasonable question. Mud gurgled around the toes of his boots and damp grass clung to his heels. It had rained during the night; the field was full of bushy-tailed bargain-hunters who clamored for vendors to lower their prices even before their cars were fully unloaded.

“Now we begin,” Aziraphale said, taking a deep breath as though preparing himself for a task which promised nothing if not arduousness, and strode forward. The back of his tweed jacket had been partially tucked into his belt, and Crowley reached forward to free it as they came to stand before a dim, crowded table.

“Good morning, good morning,” the attendant chimed. She was remarkably lined and old, her yellowed eyes gleaming as she pulled her woolen shawl about her shoulders, and she grinned up at them toothlessly. “What may I help such gentlemen with?” Her breath stank of formaldehyde and cherry cough-suppressant.

“Just looking at the moment,” Aziraphale said pleasantly. “What a very fine assortment of goods you have here, madam. What a very fine day it is today.”

Crowley suppressed a shudder. “How can you even tell what’s here?” he whispered, taking a step closer. There were trinkets and gadgets, gizmos and thingamabobs; there were tin lampshades and wind-up racing cars, RAF pins and miniature hula girls who swiveled at the hip. A novelty flying disk displayed all manner of plastic costume jewelry, and an armless ballerina spun listlessly atop a pewter music box. The tune was “Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree,” and it played at double-speed. A stuffed, one-eyed stoat was strewn with yellowed lace and faded ribbons.

The second shudder couldn’t be suppressed.

“Oh.” Aziraphale began patting down his pockets, and retrieved a bulky silver torch from the depths of his trousers. “Here you are, my-- Oh, good _heavens_. Is that what I think it is?”

The torch, momentarily forgotten, dropped onto Crowley’s foot and rolled beneath the table. Crowley bit his tongue, tasting blood. Five, four, three, two, one... “What?”

“ _This_ ,” Aziraphale said, and held up a small figurine. It was a child of high temperament, or so Crowley supposed, as it clutched a porcelain bottle of wine [2] in its tiny porcelain hands, its dotted blue eyes gazing towards the scruffy, happy dog by its feet. The lips, although chipped and compressed by memory, were smiling. Aziraphale’s hand shook. He cleared his throat, considering his words as though preparing to deliver an answer on _University Challenge_ , and knowing full well that it was the correct one. “Is this from Dresden?”

The woman bowed her head. “Yes,” she said slowly. “I come from Dresden, too.”

Crowley folded his arms across his chest and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Come on, angel. I think I saw a book vendor setting up across the way.”

“Really, my dear,” Aziraphale admonished. “This would look perfect on the ledge above my window, don’t you think?”

“Right next to the set of wooden shoes, the porcelain horse, and the potted yew?”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened as he pictured the sight. “Yes,” he said, after a moment.

“No.”

“No?”

Crowley shook his head.

“My lady,” Aziraphale said, turning towards the woman, and held the figurine forward in the palm of his hand. “How much would you like for this?”

She laughed the laugh of dry parchment and desert winds. “Seventy-five.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale reached into his pocket for his change purse and pulled free a one pound note. “Here we are. I hope you can make change?”

The woman looked down at the proffered note, up to Aziraphale, and then to Crowley. She smiled, waggling a finger. “Eighty pounds,” she said.

“Eighty... pounds?” Aziraphale repeated.

“Yes. Eighty pounds.”

“Er, well.” Aziraphale pursed his lips. “A moment ago you said it was seventy-five.”

“Seventy-five? Is eighty-five now. This belonged to me when I was just a girl.”

“Oh. Yes, I see.” Aziraphale looked to Crowley. “Do you think I might borrow-- You know, I only brought about twenty and--”

“Not even a nanny would want that.”

“Don’t you see, though? It’s an _incredible_ piece of workmanship. The shop in which it was made was _lost_.”

“You’re haggling in the wrong direction, you realize,” Crowley said dryly.

Aziraphale sniffed. “Angels don’t haggle.”

“And I’m not lending you eighty pounds to buy an old statuette for your sill.”

“Eighty-five.”

“Ninety,” said the woman.

“I’ll take it!” said a smartly-dressed young man by their side. He pulled a leather folio from his pocket, produced a note of significant sum, and held it forth with a flourish of his wrist. Crowley could have sworn he saw him wink.

The woman bowed her head and laughed merrily when the young man refused his change; she plucked the figurine from Aziraphale’s hand and presented it to its new owner, who pushed it into a brocade rucksack and was gone as quickly as he had come, his entourage of television cameras in tow.

Aziraphale took a deep breath. “Well,” he said, unable to keep the clip from his voice. “I’m sure _he’ll_ be very _pleased_ with it.”

“Undoubtedly,” Crowley replied.

Even as they reached the book vendor three cars down, Aziraphale continued to be quite vocal in expressing the depth of his feeling for the figurine, and he remained so until his fingers happened to graze the sheaf of papers [3] which was tucked between the pages of a first edition of _Biggles Gets His Man_.

For another evening, the wine flowed aplenty, and Crowley slept on Aziraphale’s settee.

Aziraphale slept on it too.

\------------------

[1] Not an entire year, actually. The Autumn 1926 edition of _Up On Upholstery_ magazine briefly mentioned the popularity of such fabrics with the glittering youths of high society, along with that of bottle green bowler hats and noxiously colored suede shoes. Several days after its publication, the claim was refuted by the Earl of Wednesdays’s daughter’s ex-husband’s valet’s favorite cricket player, and again by the Right Honorable Stephen Tennant the following afternoon. With the aid of Scotland Yard, the vice editor of _Up On Upholstery_ traced the source of the rumor to an elderly gardener who worked on the country estate of Prince Philip of Hesse. Needless to say, the maintainers of London’s orphanages were overjoyed to find themselves the recipients of twelve thousand bolts of mauve and plum fabric, and outfitted the children accordingly. Page 67 of the Winter 1926 edition of _Up On Upholstery_ contained a formal apology for this finely-woven faux-pas, though as the postman who carried Aziraphale’s copy of it was led astray by a band of street hooligans identifiable only by their smashing purple trousers, the magazine never found its way into the hands of its rightful recipient.

[2] It was not a bottle of wine, but rather a very large hand grenade.

[3] A collection of subversive love letters written by King James I, along with several anatomically-distinctive replies.


End file.
